


Hush Little Kitty

by heathtrash



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Cat, Fluff, Gen, Morgana headcanons, very slight 4x03 reference, wafts of hackle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22598236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathtrash/pseuds/heathtrash
Summary: Hecate Hardbroom is settling down for the evening, but Morgana is missing. Hecate goes in search of her, only to find her in the most unlikely of places.
Relationships: Amelia Cackle | Ada Cackle & Hardbroom, Drill & Hardbroom (Worst Witch), Hecate Hardbroom & Morgana Hardbroom
Comments: 16
Kudos: 44





	Hush Little Kitty

It was evening, and Hecate was sat in her armchair by the fireplace, a copy of The Manual of Natural Sigil Crafting hinged open over a finger. 

She frowned. Usually around this time, Morgana would be hopping up onto her lap and swishing her tail in Hecate’s face to let her know that this was definitely the time for food—right this minute, or she would starve to death—and that she was going to continue to be infuriating until she was fed. It was a nightly ritual of which Hecate had grown almost fond.

Hecate had already started her tea brewing in anticipation, since at some point across the decades, Morgana had come to associate the distinct aroma of Hecate’s evening blend of chamomile and spearmint herbal tea with being fed; it would also take approximately the time of brewing the tea for Morgana to smell the tea, pad over to Hecate and jump into her lap while she was reading, press insistent toe beans into her legs as she refused to settle, and waft fur up into her nose until she had no choice but to put the book down and empty a sachet of Familiar Feast into her bowl.

Yet she had poured the water into the teapot fifteen minutes ago now, and there was still no sign of Morgana at all.

Hecate set the book down—for indeed, there was little chance that she was going to get any reading done now—and started scouring her chambers for the impish black cat. She was certainly not worried—the trembling of her heart in her chest was merely the tickle of a cough that needed to be expelled—Morgana was most likely out hunting and had become all too involved in pursuing a frog or other small prey.

Hecate checked all of her familiar’s usual favourite hiding spots—sometimes Morgana would sneak into her wardrobe and lurk amongst her shoes and boots, her flashing olive green eyes the only indication of her amidst all the black, but today there were only shadows. Her more obvious favourite vantage points—the dressing table where she would rub her face against Hecate’s hairbrush; in the scuttle atop her firewood, where she would sit out of spite when Hecate had company, glaring out at the intruders like a grumpy piece of coal; atop the book shelves where Hecate had long ago given up trying discourage her from going, on account of the breakable ornaments she had been given over the years—but there was no sign of her. Hecate even cast a (dim, so as not to startle any potential sleeping cats) light spell to look underneath her bed, even though it had been a while since she had hidden there, but to no avail.

There were plenty of places she could have got to in the castle that would explain her absence, but she, like Hecate, was a creature of habit, and this was unusual behaviour. Perhaps one of the students had mistaken her for one of their own—far more beautiful though she was—and she was yowling in one of their rooms, while they teased her with the amateurish, unpolished spellwork of neophyte witches. She shuddered at the thought.

The teapot on the side-table was by now lukewarm. Hecate knew she could not settle enough to drink it without knowing where Morgana was, so she decided she simply had to find the cat before she could do anything else. Her first port of call would be to ask Ada, since Morgana was occasionally to be found in her chambers—and it had nothing to do with the fact that Ada was the only person she trusted enough to show a little of her vulnerability.

Hecate tentatively knocked on the heavy wooden door opposite her own, and after a few moments, Ada emerged, looking up at Hecate from behind her small oval glasses. She was already dressed down for the evening, in fuzzy slippers and with a cosy triangular shawl about her shoulders. “Something the matter, dear?”

“Ada,” Hecate said, trying not to sound too harried. “Have you—by any chance—seen Morgana around? Perhaps she is playing with Pendle?”

Ada’s brow creased as she glanced into her sitting room, letting Hecate enter. “I haven’t seen her, no. I’m afraid it’s just Pendle and I for the evening. Are you sure she hasn’t fallen asleep under a pile of laundry?”

“Quite sure,” Hecate replied, wondering what on earth a pile of laundry was. Any worn items of clothing were dealt with immediately by her personally—she was far too proud to allow another witch to touch her dirty laundry, and moreover did not have faith in the school’s laundry witches’ ability to not ruin any of her clothing—and as such, her laundry did not accumulate into piles.

“She’ll turn up, don’t you worry,” Ada reassured her.

“She did not appear for her dinner,” Hecate continued, her voice wavering. “Morgana is never late. Even when she is out hunting, she transfers back in time for her dinner, at precisely the same time of day.”

She must have sounded particularly morose, because Ada made a sound of dismay and wrapped her slender frame in a protective hug.

“It’s all right—we’ll find her.”

Hecate’s mouth twisted in uncertainty as she felt her fingers lace into the large holes in the granny-square stitch of Ada’s shawl, while Ada’s warmth folded around her comfortingly.

“I will try sensing her whereabouts,” Hecate resolved, withdrawing from Ada somewhat reluctantly.

Hecate closed her eyes and reached out with her magic to determine Morgana’s location with a familiar sense spell. It was dark—usually by now she could see through Morgana’s eyes as if they were her own—but this was nothing about which to be overly concerned, since this most likely meant that she was asleep.

“Any luck?” Ada’s voice came from her side.

Hecate listened carefully; the way that sounds were echoing led her to believe that Morgana was somewhere in the lower levels of the castle. Morgana was quite warm, so she must have found somewhere comfortable to curl up. 

“She is sleeping. I think I will be able to locate her without waking her.”

Ada smiled. “That must be a relief to know. Let me know if you need any help.”

Hecate thanked her with a brief squeeze of her hand, and prepared to transfer down into the depths of the castle—to the catacombs, where the source of the familiar sense seemed to be drawing her.

The shadows fled across the vaulted ceiling away from Hecate as violet flames burst from her hand. She stalked through the archways, listening with her magic for the heart of her precious Morgana amongst the various storage chambers filled with objects shrouded in dust sheets and cobwebs. 

Hecate knew she was drawing closer by the hum of her connection with Morgana becoming more present and insistent. She turned a corner into a side-room, which seemed more recently used than some of the others—at its centre stood a solitary pram. At first, Hecate was concerned that her spell had misfired somehow—but no, this was definitely the target of the familiar sense spell.

On closer inspection under the frilled hood of the pram, nestled into a plush blanket covered all over with stars, was Morgana, coiled up with her head resting against her paws, and her tail encircling her body. Her gentle purring stilled the anxiety in Hecate’s chest, which had been ticking as rapidly as the mechanical timepiece hanging from her neck. Hecate doused the light spell at once, so that she would not disturb Morgana, and gazed at her peaceful familiar, all the cold fear within her melting into softness as tears ached in the corners of her eyes.

It was curious that she had chosen this particular spot to sleep. It seemed almost deliberate. Yet, as she pondered how to extricate Morgana from this situation, Hecate knew there was no conceivable outcome where she could see herself daring to wake Morgana, for it warmed her heart to see her sleeping—and in such a perfect place—her gorgeous, dignified companion tucked into a baby’s pram as though she was her own child that she must protect. 

Blossoming in Hecate’s chest was a pang of almost maternal affection that she was still as yet too hurt to give into, so she shifted focus on the reality at hand. How was she to safely convey Morgana back to her chambers? A transference spell would create too much of a disturbance. Lifting her out would be nothing short of a crime. There was only one logical, sensible course of action—she would have to take the pram up to the tower in the teachers’ wing.

Curling her fingers over the handles with a mixture of determination and uncertainty, she began to steer the pram back out of the room and out into the corridor. The pram’s basket rocked gently on its suspension, and Morgana’s little black nose barely twitched as she slept on. It was a curious, deeply unfamiliar sensation to push a pram, but she quickly found a gait that suited. She was concerned that the uneven rough-hewn stone floor would result in too many bumps, yet the basket remained surprisingly steady.

As she passed back under the dark archways, Hecate thought, for a brief moment, that she heard the scuff of boots on stone floor, but instead of casting a spell to reveal whomever it was and potentially awakening Morgana, she decided to let it be, and continued until she reached the spiral staircase up.

Hecate considered how best to proceed, but settled on a simple levitation. It was a slightly awkward squeeze—but careful not to bump the wheels or sides of the basket against either stair or rounded wall, Hecate managed to successfully master the staircase without Morgana raising so much as a whisker.

Hecate surfaced from the catacombs at last, and with some relief left behind the cramped narrow staircase—but then realised with a jolt that the rest of the castle still was illuminated with flickering torch flames. She knew she must dim the torches in the corridors as she went to order to protect Morgana’s slumber—and was grateful for the later hour that meant that the evening curfew had already passed, and hence no girls were tearing down the halls, screeching like banshees, and startling her precious cargo from her rest. 

Hecate stalked on through the hallways, her posture stiff and unyielding as ever. Were she to come across anyone in her travels, she did not wish to appear to be _enjoying_ pushing her familiar about the castle in a perambulator as though she were an infant.

Yet of course, sod’s law dictated that at that moment, she would come across the most frustrating person to witness her predicament possible.

“Excuse me!” came the irate voice of Dimity Drill as Hecate made the torches ahead of her die down in their sconces.

Of course it would be _Dimity_ whom she should meet. Dimity, whom she herself had put on patrol duty that night, marched down the corridor with her cane towards what she must have suspected was a student out of bed, but stopped in her tracks at the sight of her with the pram. It was an unfortunate fate of her own design, and she regretted that she had not anticipated this and plotted an alternative route.

“Hecate, is that—? Do you have a _baby_ in there?” Dimity’s face was a picture of incredulity as she took in the absurdity of the situation.

“Please keep your voice down,” Hecate responded quietly. She stood back to show Dimity the sleeping cat. “She must have fallen asleep in the pram. I could hardly be expected to wake her up to move her.” One of Morgana’s ears flicked, as if trying to dislodge a fly. “I suspect a student is responsible for this, but that investigation shall have to wait until morning. For now the priority is returning her to my chambers.”

Dimity gave her a long, searching look. “There are an awful lot of stairs in the castle,” Dimity said. “I don’t think you’re going to get her and the pram back up that tower without waking her up.”

“I am a _witch_ , Miss Drill, and I am more than capable of casting a simple levitation enchantment,” Hecate retorted scathingly.

“Well, good luck,” Dimity shrugged, and leaned over the pram to admire Morgana.

Hecate slapped her hand away as she made as if to stroke the recumbent cat’s temptingly silky fur. “Do _not_ disturb her.”

Dimity rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath as she walked off, irritable over her duties and the fact that she was not even allowed a cat-in-a-pram-shaped reprieve to her obviously interminable boredom.

Hecate continued on her way, beginning to feel marginally lighter with each step. Morgana looked so small and sweet in the pram that she could not help but be reminded of how she had been when she was a kitten—blissfully still when asleep, her tiny chin determined, but when awake—extremely and demandingly vocal, unrestrained, rambunctious, and clumsier than Mildred Hubble around a cauldron; she was the polar opposite of the studious and rule-fearing Hecate as a child. Once, she had even fallen entirely into a colour-changing potion Hecate had been practicing in her first year and her fur had turned lurid pink. Hecate remembered staying up until midnight trying to research the reversal spell, lest she have to explain having a non-regulation coloured cat to her teachers the next day. Pippa Pentangle, then her best friend, had wangled her way into Hecate’s room even after Hecate had tried to keep her out, had howled with laughter at Hecate’s plight of having a fuzzy pink Morgana instead of her usual luxuriant black fur, and begged her to let her give her Pepper a little pink tip to his tail. When Hecate had not been looking, she had dipped the end of her own ponytail in as well so she could match her familiar. The reversal spell had worked on the cats’ fur but not Pippa’s hair, so the following day, Pippa had had to go to a very young Miss Cackle, the kindest of their teachers by far, who sympathetically had helped her alter the reversal spell so it would work on human rather than cat hair, so that she would not get into trouble for having unnaturally-coloured hair. Hecate smiled and shook her head at the memory. Pippa had certainly encouraged her into some scrapes—amusing as they were in hindsight—which had done nothing for her younger self’s nerves.

When Morgana had grown into an elegant but still occasionally quite ludicrous adult cat, her curiosity for potions had waned slightly, only to be replaced by a habit for yowling along loudly with Hecate as she practised her chanting. It disturbed the poor girl with whom she shared a wall so much that Hecate had had to make her some enchanted ear muffs to keep the caterwauling from distracting her from her homework. She had made several attempts to train her out of it, since in most other respects she appeared to be quite the exemplary witch’s cat, but to this day was reluctant to practise her chanting within earshot of Morgana, since she had never fully succeeded in dissuading her from treating Hecate’s chanting as an open invitation to scream along with her.

Eventually, Hecate arrived with Morgana at the top of the teachers’ tower. Morgana had remained unmoving but for the steady rise and fall of her breath in her little lungs. While she may have been larger now, with long, soft fur, her expression when deep in slumber was identical to the way it had been when she was a tiny, clumsy kitten—her eyes serene, yet her chin determined.

Before Hecate entered her chambers, she gave a soft knock at Ada’s door, knowing how Ada would appreciate the intrusion.

“I found her sleeping in this perambulator,” Hecate explained in a low voice as Ada raised her hands to her mouth in barely supressed adoration. They both watched her for a moment together, until Ada patted Hecate’s arm and told her to get some rest.

Hecate exhaled all of the stress of the evening as she wheeled the pram into her sitting room and finally slumped into her armchair, unbuttoning her boots and slipping her stockinged feet into a pair of soft slippers. It had been surprisingly strenuous walking from the catacombs to the very topmost floor of the teachers’ tower, particularly while striving to ensure Morgana slept soundly. 

Hecate tapped the teapot to clear it of the cold tea and spent leaves, before pouring freshly boiled water in to brew. It was a little later than she would have preferred to take her tea, but Morgana needed to be fed, and coaxing her with the familiar scent of her nighttime blend was the gentlest way Hecate knew of waking her.

Surely enough, after a minute of the steam curling from the teapot’s spout into the cool air, Morgana stretched out her arms in front of her and vibrated as she yawned. Her narrow eyes, heavy with sleep, blinked at Hecate, before plopping down on the rug on all fours and twirling herself around her skirts, meowing plaintively. Hecate could not wait for her to jump up onto her lap—she hurried over to Morgana’s food dish to fill it with a pouch of Familiar Feast, which she seemed all too eager to gobble down, while Hecate sipped at her tea, feeling the weight of her tiredness heavily under her eyes.

Now that Morgana was safely home, Hecate considered transferring the pram back down to the storage room in which she had found it, but knew that she ought to keep it until the morning when she could do some investigative spellwork to uncover the culprit behind Morgana’s mysterious choice of a new sleeping spot. Besides, should Morgana wish to sleep in it that night, who was she to stop her?

Hecate’s cup drained of her relaxing herbal infusion, she performed her nightly ablutions, and, without second thought, moved the pram to stand by her bed. Morgana deigned to let Hecate scoop her up and tuck her in, folding the starry blanket neatly over her. 

Her mouth twitching with the delight she felt at this undignified role that Morgana was rather taking to, Hecate slipped under her own quilt, before quenching the candle on the bedside table.

“Good night, Morgana.”

Morgana purred softly in response. 

All was well.

**Author's Note:**

> we can have little a cuteness after 4x03, as a treat
> 
> i came up with this concept randomly and wanted to write a little 100-500 word piece, but instead you got this
> 
> thank you for reading!
> 
> lots of love from heathcliff  
> @heathtrash on tumblr and twitter


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